Free India Black and the Rajah's Ruby by Carol K. Carr

jerked open and a rough voice said, “Here, guv.” Something round and heavy and metallic rolled across the carriage floor, crashing into the earl’s feet. The earl smelled a familiar smell, which took him back to delightful days on the moor, with the pheasants whirring into the air as the beaters drove them along. Gunpowder. The carriage rolled a few feet forward, and exploded.

ONE
    Ah, springtime in England. Fleecy lambs frolic on the green hills, their white wool sparkling in the sunlight. Apple blossoms float like snowflakes across the fields. Crocuses and daffodils dot the landscape. Warm zephyrs caress the pastures, and the pale blue sky gleams with promise.
    But not in bloody London. Not this year. This spring, the citizens of the Big Smoke were being treated to daily deluges from the heavens. Thick clouds roiled overhead, and the crack of thunder punctuated every conversation. You might think that London could do with a bathe and sheets of rain are just the thing to accomplish that task, but you’d be forgetting the voluminous coils of smoke that issue from every hearth and home and the reeking fumes from the factories. When the rain comes down in this city, it comes down as brown sludge, ruining bonnets and cloaks and covering the houses with a layer of silt. The streets had become rushing torrents as the drainage system filled to overflowing. A stroll to the pub meant wading through clumps of straw, fruit peels, and bits and bobs of human waste. The stench was overpowering; the whole city smelled fetid and sour, like a vast sewer.
    It had rained so much and so often that any day now I expected to hear a stentorian voice issue from the sky: “Here, Noah! Get moving, you lazy bugger! I want fleas, a pair of ’em. And make sure it’s male and female this time. That last lot you brought in was both ladies, and we won’t be getting any baby fleas from those two. What’s that? Rats? Of course I want rats. Two of every kind you’ve got. And don’t forget the lice. They’re thick on the ground over in the East End.” Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. “Eh? Couldn’t hear you, Noah. Sorry about that, only time’s wasting and if I’m going to get this flood underway, I’ve got to keep the weather on schedule. Tarts? You want to know if you should bring some tarts? I’m beginning to think I should have entrusted this job to someone else, Noah. Hell, no, we don’t want any tarts on board. They’ll contaminate the whole ark with their wanton ways. Besides, it’s their kind we’re trying to eliminate with this exercise. So get back to work and find me some parasites. Politicians? I said parasites, didn’t I? Of course politicians qualify.”
    Well, I had to amuse myself somehow, even if I was in danger of provoking the Ancient Bearded Bloke in the process. The blasted squalls were keeping customers from the door, and my bints were growing sullen from lack of trade. I suppose I should take half a mo and introduce myself. I’m India Black, proprietress of Lotus House brothel and occasionally, when the mood suits me and the prime minister asks me politely, a secret agent in service to the British government. I don’t care if you don’t believe it; it doesn’t make it any less true. But just so you’ll understand, I’ll explain how I found myself chasing Russian spies and saving Vicky from a Scottish assassin.
    Until a few months ago, I’d been minding my own business and running Lotus House. I have a head for business, if I do say so myself, and the bordello was raking in cash from the military officers, government clerks and secretaries, and the minor aristocracy who comprise my clientele. I run a refined establishment, with clean whores, Cuban cigars and good liquor. The girls are well fed, and I’m mostly successful at keeping them away from the gin, and as a result they’re plump, rosy and inviting. It costs a bit more to take care of the sluts, especially when, if left to their own devices,